


No Dejaré De Quererte

by unpocoloco18



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluffy Angst, Healing, Patching relationships, Post-Canon, Recovery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpocoloco18/pseuds/unpocoloco18
Summary: After her great-great-grandson returns to land of the living, Imelda grapples with Héctor being back in her life. Meanwhile, in the past, a twenty-two year old Imelda takes measures to get some answers on her missing husband. Her memories from the resulting events will haunt her as she tries to decipher what she and the love of her life's relationship means now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here I am with a new Coco story! I admit this first chapter is pretty short and slow moving, but things will pick up, I promise! For the purpose of switching between flashbacks and present day in the Land of the Dead, a double line symbolizes a switch between the two times. A single line will be used for division within one of the eras. Imelda's flashbacks are occurring in 1921. My summary sucks. The story will be better than the summary. I hope. Thanks for giving it a chance! :) I'll be trying to do regular updates, at least once a week if not every few days. Reviews give me life + incentive, so please do leave one if you enjoyed now or later down the road.

* * *

 

Imelda Rivera was twenty-two when her husband, her Héctor, left. She did not see him again for nearly a century. And now that she did, brought together by, of all people, her great-great-grandson, she truly did not know how to handle it. She didn't even know how to react. Imelda had always been the one who had it together, the one who kept her emotions in check, and she liked it that way. It was easier to avoid being hurt. It was even easier to pretend no one affected you. She had become an expert, a devotee in the art of acting insouciant, and presently all her expertise was failing her. It had only happened once before, and she was not inclined for a repeat incident.

Now her Héctor walked beside her, the man she had given her heart and soul to so many years ago. A man she had gradually forced herself to push out of her heart, forcing herself to turn bitter towards his memory, until he was nothing more than a patch of her past. A past she could not fully forget, no matter how much she tried.

"So . . . how have you been?" he finally offered tentatively. Imelda raised one eyebrow.

"How have I _been_?" she returned. "That's our first exchange here?"

"I just avoided the Final Death, Imelda. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one. You know I was never the best with words anyway."

She had to smile a bit at that one. It was true. He never had been. It was part of his charm. She avoided the last sentence in her reply, however. She did not want to even start delving into their past.

"I'm amazed Miguel pulled it off," she said, putting more space between them. "I suppose I should have expected as much from that boy."

"And our Coco."

Imelda stiffened. This was not going in the direction she wanted it to, not a direction she was ready for.

"I'll see you back at the house, Héctor." She began to walk away from him, away from painful memories.

"The house?" She turned to face him.

"Yes. The house. Go get your things."

* * *

 

* * *

 

Imelda glanced out the window for about the fifth time that morning. Or was it six? Not that she was counting.

_Get it together, Imelda. ¡Animate! If a letter comes, it comes. If it doesn't, it doesn't. You peering out the window for it won't make it arrive any sooner._

She wished she would listen to herself. This was now the third week she hadn't heard from her husband, an oddity where they were concerned. When he had first left on tour with Ernesto, she had received at least a letter every other day. And then, they stopped. Abruptly. Forebodingly. She didn't like the feeling their end had put in her stomach, and she liked even less the implications it put in her mind. What had happened? It was so unlike Héctor, and she couldn't find even one explanation for the letters' absence that appealed to her, or even one that she could accept. And so she continued watching for a letter. Diligently. Plaintively.

* * *

 

The next week, she found herself starting to compose explanations, stories really, for Coco for her papá's absence. She thought her daughter believed her. She didn't see a reason why she wouldn't. Coco was only three. Lying to her three year old daughter.

_Where the hell are you, Héctor? Why haven't you written me? Told me anything. One word. By God, you better get yourself together and come back to us._

Imelda's carefully cultivated skills were failing her. Her emotions were cracking, but her wall against others was going up more than ever. Every time she went out, every time she took a step into the market, she was besieged by the veiled comments of others. So that musician of yours is still gone, they would say, with a pointed emphasis on _musician_ and _still_. And she would grit her teeth, force a smile, and excuse her way out of earshot, away from the gossips she knew tittered behind her back.

* * *

 

By the sixth week, she had come to a decision. A cold, hard one. Her mind was going absolutely loco with the possible explanations for her husband's absence. They had only grown more vicious, turning her own mind against her. She had allowed herself to consider more than once if Héctor had truly left _her_ , her and Coco, for something else. Or rather, maybe some _one_ else. The first time the concept peeked into her head, Imelda found herself physically smacking it out. The next time, she entertained it until she cursed herself for her own disloyalty. And the next, she ended up curling up in bed and taking a nap to clear her head. But it didn't. She only dreamed of Héctor, her Héctor, leaving her, and telling her exactly why. When she awoke, cold despite the warm temperature of the house, Imelda knew she had to get some answers. She had to know, had to disprove the stories that her own mind was throwing at her. She would take a trip. Her husband had to be somewhere.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Imelda couldn't figure out her own feelings. She wasn't sure she was prepared to pick back up a century old relationship, or that she even wanted to. A century old marriage. A marriage. To love and honor, in sickness or death. In death. Even in death, she remained connected irrevocably to Héctor, a point she wasn't sure was a blessing or a curse.

_You have a second chance, Imelda. Don't waste that. You're not stupid._

_So what?_  Her mind threw her own fears back in her face.  _So you get another chance? For what? A redo at a relationship that ended because_ he  _left?!_

_It wasn't his fault._ She argued with herself.  _He was_ murdered _. I'm supposed to blame him for his own murder?_

_You're not ready and you know it._ Her head, her memories taunted her. As always, they were an ever present shroud she could never escape. She shook her head violently to clear her thoughts away. She could hardly ever re-start a relationship with Héctor. She had too much to keep to herself. Too much she could never share. An impossible fantasy. But she couldn't shut him out. She couldn't shut her own heart out.

* * *

 

* * *

A few days later, Imelda boarded the train for Mexico City.

"But why Mexico City?" her brothers had asked.

"It's the last tour date I have for him. He'd always written me dates they'd planned on as many in advance as he could."

No matter what had happened to Héctor, no matter what decision he'd made, she doubted she would still find him in the city. But at least perhaps she could find a lead, some answer on what his next plans had been. Why he hadn't written her.

She was used to feeling alone, but she hadn't felt the sensation in four years, not since she'd married. It was impossible to feel alone with Héctor, or as he had enjoyed putting it, cuando la otra mitad de tu corazón está ahí. Imelda had rolled her eyes at the phrase, pretending she didn't like the . . . melodramatic factor of it all, but she had to admit to herself the sentiment was accurate. She had repeated it to herself over and over when he was gone, so familiar that she could hear his voice saying it to her. Without Héctor, she felt alone, utterly alone, and she'd only staved off the feeling when he toured with the knowledge that he would return soon enough. Now she wasn't sure.

She settled in her seat on the train, taking the window side. If she was unlucky enough to get a seat partner, she wanted the advantage of being able to stare out the window and pretend she couldn't hear a thing. She didn't want to hear anything, didn't want to be so acutely aware of a world for her that didn't have Héctor in it, one that was becoming more of a reality with every hour that passed.

* * *

 

* * *

"Has Héctor come back with his things yet?"

That was Imelda's first question when she walked through the door of the house. Victoria raised her eyebrows.

"He has  _been_ back, Mamá Imelda. The real question here is where have  _you_ been."

"Where is he?"

"I put him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Tía Rosita is putting his things away; what he has anyway. You know, I think he needs some new shoes."

Imelda gave her a look as she swept over to the mirror, patting her hair down and tucking hairs back into her braids.

"Where is she putting his things? There's not really any room."

"The chest in la sala."

Imelda continued adjusting her hair.

"Tell her to move them."  
"To where exactly?" Victoria crossed her arms. "There is quite literally no other spot in the house. All the rooms are occupied."

"Put them in my room."

Victoria grinned.

"They wouldn't do him much good there since he's probably going to sleep in la sala too, at least for now."

Imelda pivoted on her heel and strode towards the kitchen.  
"No he's not."  
"Oh no?"

"No. He can go in my room for now."

"Ohho. In case you forgot, Mamá Imelda, there's only one bed in there."

_That girl and her mouth. She has got to learn to keep opinions to herself._

"I am well aware of the layout of my own bedroom, Victoria. Mind yourself."

She disregarded the latter warning.

"Whatever you say, Mamá Imelda," Victoria said, but her expression did not match her words, as she tried to hide a laugh behind an ever-growing smile.

Imelda harrumphed and continued into the kitchen, leaving Victoria in her wake. Héctor sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand, a spoon in the other, with which he was absentmindedly stirring the drink into a small whirlpool. He did not notice her entrance, which, Imelda thought, was highly unusual. It was generally pretty hard for anyone to not notice her entrance into a room. She stood just inside the kitchen for a moment, feeling frozen. She still wasn't sure what would be appropriate conversation, and her stomach had taken on an unfamiliar feeling of raw nervousness.

"Héctor," she finally offered. His head jerked up, eyes meeting hers with an expression of pure apology and love rolled into one. "So," she continued, "did you have any problems getting your things over here?"

"No problems," he chuckled. "There wasn't much to bring, if that's what you mean. I'll keep them out of the way."

"Oh no, I didn't mean that. I just didn't mean to, ah," she glanced away, uncomfortable, "abandon you . . . back there."

"It wasn't a problem. Oh! Not that you did abandon me, it just wasn't a problem . . . in the first place."

Imelda nodded. The two sat in silence. Héctor stirred his coffee into an even bigger whirlpool, mimicking Imelda's emotions.

"Well." Imelda finally rose from her seat and moved towards the door. "I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight, Héctor."

"Goodnight, Imelda." His eyes were pained, and she tried to block the image out of her mind. She would never sleep with that burned into her head.

* * *

 

* * *

The train trip to Mexico City was miserable. In terms of material time, it was comparably short to some of the train journeys she knew Héctor had endured. But she was used to keeping busy to . . . well, she wasn't sure what, and she wouldn't admit it anyway. She was uncomfortable without something to keep her busy, to give her something worthwhile to do, to give her a goal. It occupied her thoughts and prevented her from ever acting like something affected her. She did not have that luxury on the train. Instead, she was left alone with her own notions, just her and her mind, which was not her preferred choice for company right now. The only thing that could run through her head was the possibilities of what she would find in Mexico City, running faster and faster, a whirling black hole, until she produced a call and response in her own head.

_What if he well and truly left? Oh, don't be silly Imelda, you know Héctor. It's **your** Héctor. He would never do that . . . But what if he did? You've heard stories like that._

_What if he's injured? Or hurt? Dead? You would have gotten word if anything had happened, you know that. People don't just drop off the face of the earth without leaving any trails behind them. He has to be okay. He has to be. But what if- **Stop.** He is okay. We will be okay . . . will be okay . . . okay . . ._

She shook her head to clear it, feeling dizzy. She had to get ahold of this. A good start would be some fresh air.

* * *

 

* * *

She wasn't sure how to conduct herself. She always took her hair down for bed, but this wasn't a normal night. Héctor was going to be sleeping there too.  _Sleeping_ , she added in her head for extra emphasis to Victoria. As if she could hear her.

A knock on the door came half a second later.

_Speak of the devil._

"Come in."

Victoria peeked around the door, taking in the room, then entered, bringing with her a steaming mug of hot cocoa.

"You didn't get your cocoa from the kitchen tonight," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Imelda sighed. She always,  _always_  got cocoa before bed.  _Always_. Was she really that absentminded?

"I was about to go fetch it," she answered, a flippant tone adorning the edge of the claim. "It would get cold while I prepared for bed."

"Mm hmm." Victoria nodded, unconvinced. "So, Héctor hasn't come in yet? I thought I better knock."

"Victoria," Imelda sighed, taking the mug from her granddaughter. "Let me nip that in the bud right now. Your ideas, insinuations . . . they have to stop. This is enough of an awkward situation as it is."

"I was being  _considerate_ ," Victoria returned. "He  _is_ going to be staying in your bed."

"I didn't invite him back into my  _bed_ ," Imelda clarified. "This is a matter of practicality. There's not any other room in the house. You know that. We only get a new room when there has been a new arrival, and Héctor has been here already. We're just sleeping together."

_Damn it._

Victoria tried to stifle another  _look_ , to no avail.

"Well, technically-"

"Don't even go there, Victoria. You know exactly what I meant."

Victoria rose from the bed.

"Sí, I know what you meant. I don't think perhaps it came out the right way . . . or maybe it did?"

Imelda rolled her eyes.

"Goodnight, Mamá Imelda," she said, shutting the door behind her.

"Good _night_ , Victoria."

Oh, for goodness' sakes. That girl. Her head certainly did fill with foolish ideas.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Imelda was not feeling much better when the train finally pulled into Mexico City. The only improvement she could note was that she no longer was having an overwhelming urge to vomit, which was a blessing in itself.

She had never traveled far outside Santa Cecilia, and certainly not to a city as big as Mexico City. It was bustling with people and, to her, they all seemed to know exactly where they were going. She was not at all sure where she should go. Not at all. But she squared her shoulders, picked up her bag, and held it nonchalantly at her side. No need for her to act like she didn't know what she was doing, even if she didn't. Everything would be fine.

Imelda approached a porter. Surely one of them would know how to get where she needed to go.

"Discúlpeme, señor," she began. The porter turned. "Could you please tell me the best way to get to El Gato Rojo?" It was the last place she knew Héctor had to have been, the last date he had written to her. He had been so excited about it, so excited that she could feel it through his words. It wasn't a top scale venue, but it was a much better one than those he and Ernesto typically played. He had hoped it would be a stepping stone for them.

"Are you sure you want to go there, señora?"

"Reasonably so. ¿Por que?"

The porter paused for a moment. "Nada. You can get there taking the tramway if you wish. It will let you off about a quarter mile from there."

Imelda nodded. "Gracias."

The porter nodded in return, eyebrows knotted.

* * *

The tramway did indeed let her off about a quarter mile from El Gato Rojo, just as he had promised. The place didn't look like anywhere she would want to spend her time. It had a clean appearance, but it also had an aura she didn't quite like. She couldn't put her finger on why. Shrugging it off, she entered the now quiet cantina.

"¿Hola?" she called out. "Anyone here?"

A young woman came out from a side door. "You here to apply, honey?"

"Apply? For what?" Imelda shook her head. "No. I'm looking for two músicos who have an engagement to perform here."

"Oh, you mean that de la Cruz?"

"He's one of them. I'm looking for Héctor Rivera too."

The woman shook her head. "There's been no Rivera playing here. De la Cruz is playing here this week though. Guapo, eh?"

Imelda rolled her eyes, before what she'd been told sunk in. "No, there should be a Rivera playing. He and de la Cruz are a duo. They were booked together."

The woman shrugged. "De la Cruz was booked alone. There's no partner here."

Time to move on. "Do you know where he's staying?"

"Oh querida, you're a bold one. He's at the hotel across the way. Most of our performers stay there."

Imelda narrowed her eyes, before offering a simple gracias. She would not dignify the rest of the woman's remarks with a response.

"Good luck!" the woman added.

* * *

The hotel's clerk was friendly and, to Imelda's relief, helpful. When she asked for Ernesto's room number, he gave it to her. And now she found herself climbing the stairs to the second floor, desperately wondering why in the hell Héctor wouldn't have been there for that damn cantina. It was the one spot he'd truly seemed excited about performing in.

Taking a deep breath, Imelda rapped on Ernesto's room. A minute later, he opened the door, revealing a . . . companion. A girl.

Imelda tapped her foot. "Really, Ernesto?"

"Oh! Imelda! Good to see you!"

"Señora Rivera," she corrected, letting herself into the room. "I'd say you were more surprised to see me, Ernesto." An appraising eye moved over the hotel room, over the key piece of furniture of the room, before returning to de la Cruz with a disgusted expression. "Don't mind me." Ernesto had remained by the door of the room, but Imelda made no move to leave.

"I'll see you later, amante," he finally said, giving up. The girl rose and kissed him before leaving the room, he shutting the door behind her.

"Open, if you don't mind, Ernesto." Imelda wrinkled her nose.

"Oh, Imelda, we're old friends. No need for that formality." He disregarded her correction.

"Mmm, after seeing your  _friend_ , we will stick with the formality,  _Señor de la Cruz_."

"We are friends, Imelda. Subjective term, you know." She slapped him across the face.

"Don't try me, Ernesto. You know me too well to think that will pass."

"Oy, okay, okay, Imelda. You did come to see me, don't forget."

"I came to see my husband. Where is Héctor?" Imelda crossed her arms.

"You mean he's not at home?"

"Would I be here if he were?"

"I was afraid of that." De la Cruz took a long breath and seated himself in a chair.

"Afraid of what, Ernesto? Don't play games with me."

"I haven't seen him since Toluca, Imelda."

She screwed up her face. That was impossible. "What do you mean you  _haven't seen him_? I know he was excited about this appearance. He wouldn't have just left it."

"I wouldn't have thought so either, Imelda. But I think . . . _something else_  became more important." The man let his voice trail off.

Imelda tasted bile. Ernesto was too good at placing implications into his words, a skill he took pride in when he flirted with the women in Santa Cecilia. She had seen it at work, and now she could not mistake the meaning behind that  _something else_ that became so important to her husband. But that was impossible. That wasn't Héctor.

"Something else meaning what?"

"Oh, Imelda," de la Cruz crooned, "you're not a naïve woman. Músicos always attract the ladies. This one was particularly special, I think. Must have been to take him from you." He touched her arm.

She stood there, motionless, for only a moment before slapping his hand away. "Héctor would never, Ernesto. I do hope you have a better story for me."

"I could create a better one for you, since I agree the truth is pathetic."

Imelda's eyes blazed fire, fire that could burn a hole straight through a man if she tried. "Do not, do not  _ever_ call my husband pathetic, Ernesto de la Cruz," she hissed, moving towards his face. "He would never conduct himself in such a manner. After all," she moved away, his eyes focused on her making her uneasy, "you may be amigos, but I've never seen two men less alike from one another."

* * *

 

* * *

She had finally decided upon letting her hair down. No reason to act any different than she normally did just because Héctor would be there. Damn him. Why should he have the privilege of making her so self-conscious? Imelda gulped the hot cocoa Victoria had left, but she wished it were something stronger. A lot stronger. She slammed the mug down onto her dressing table, the sound reverberating through the room.

Good. It made her feel better. She wanted something that she could physically see, or she supposed hear, in this case, her emotions in. The longer she waited, the angrier she got. Angry at herself for letting her own heart get into a tizzy like a young woman. Angry at Héctor for leaving her. Angry at herself for suggesting he stay in  _her room_. Was she insane? She paced back and forth across the room, firm indentations in the carpet leaving a reminder of where she'd been.

She sat on the bed, rubbing the crinkles out of her forehead as she did. Funny, she could quite literally feel her own skull now, and having that direct access to it did nothing to rub her anger out and calm herself down. Like in life, like in death. Her nervous hands moved to her hair, re-braiding her locks into one long plait. She had only ever let Héctor see her hair down. It was special in that respect, and it indicated too many things she didn't want to return to.

Imelda was about halfway down her hair when a tentative knock came at the door.

"¡Un momento!" Her fingers flew down the rest of her mane, forcing it to cooperate into some semblance of being put together. Drawing her robe tighter around herself, she answered the door. Héctor stood on the other side, looking somewhat sheepish.

"Victoria told me I was supposed to stay here," he explained. "I don't know if she was wrong . . . if she was, I'll get right out."

"No, she was right," Imelda opened the door wider and stepped back into the room. "We're short on rooms so the only other option was la sala. Not very comfortable."

_Good job implying he'd be oh so comfortable here, Imelda. Fantastic._

"Oh." Héctor looked surprised. He took two more steps into the room, then began to shut the door behind him before looking at Imelda for her okay. She cocked her head, then nodded. "Okay. I didn't know if, well, I didn't know where you all would want me."

Imelda stood up straighter, moving as far away from the bed as she could. "It's no problem," she continued, trying to make light of the arrangement. "Plenty of room."

She turned back to her abandoned cup of cocoa, realizing she had chipped the mug.

"Well." Héctor cleared his throat and made his way towards the bed. He wordlessly laid down and turned over, bringing himself as close to the side of the bed as possible. The right side. The same he'd slept on when they had been married. Imelda hadn't ever realized she'd never broken that habit of sleeping on  _her side_  of the bed. Too late now.

She glanced toward her husband's form. His eyes were closed. She turned off the light and padded toward the other side of the bed, checking on him again before uncertainly removing her robe. She slid under the covers, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Imelda didn't dare move. Her body was, as Héctor's was, as close to the edge of the bed as possible without falling off.

After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Imelda realized that Héctor wasn't asleep. His breathing was uneven. She drew the sheet up further around her chin, moving farther away. It had never been a large bed in the first place, and her action caused her to slip off the mattress. She was too late to stop herself from landing with a kerplunk on the floor, despite grasping at the covers to pull herself back up.

_Damn it._

She hastily pulled herself up from the floor, brushing off her nightgown.

Héctor pushed off the covers a moment later. Imelda instantly grabbed her robe, covering her front with it. It was not the most inconspicuous move she'd ever made.

"You know, I think it might be better if I tried la sala," Héctor said, sadness lacing his words. He took the blanket from the foot of the bed and left. Imelda wanted to call after him, ask him to come back, but she did not. Her eyes closed and she tried to steady her breathing, tried to get herself back under control, tried to convince herself that nothing would happen to her. She could not. She could not call him back. Instead, her arms remained wrapped around her frame for a long time, keeping the robe in place, before she finally surrendered to sleep and climbed back into bed.

 


End file.
